Passion Play - Poem by STANLEY PACION
I seek. I crave the whiff, your body scent,
Your fragrance, I remember, it's as though,
You're in my arms right here at home today.
My resolve, it weakens,
I want you back.
I'm lonely, turn the covers,
Find only empty bed and heart ache,
The awful pain of my regret.
Sadness fouls my face.
Oh, how I hate the resolve,
Never to see you, again,
Have nothing more to do with you,
No matter how long the length of my days,
I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, once more,
Your form behind the shower curtain,
Ghost figure in the steam,
The water running full throttle, the heat,
The great comfort, I close my eyes,
I fall to vision; it's incredible, beyond belief,
How do I describe glory that had come and gone.
I fail in my recount, you, you, my darling,
And in this, my own confusion
I reduce myself to greeting-card sentiment,
I have come to believe you were heaven sent.
Can't you see I'm at your feet!
I wish to witness your getting dressed,
You, in the morning naked in our bedroom, and
Naked in the room whose door opens
Opposite to the foot of our bed,
Hurrying to get on with the day,
And then the other part, morning, noon,
Or night, when you are in our bed,
And I hold you open to savor over and over again.
I want to see your smile, and utterly to embrace you.
Were I to steal - now and forever - all your pain away!
I would be finished with you, I want you out,
But you, devil, trickster, you and your incantations,
You practice arts you learned when young,
When you and your mother spent all that time,
Back and forth on boat going to the Bahamas,
You use high-tech, gigabyte millions,
You work a black magic,
Have you command of infectious virus?
The computer's screen beckons me, keeps me awake.
Believe me. I tell you true..
I hear your voice, your whispers,
Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry,
Witch! You sit among the cords and the monitor lights,
You befoul my every electronic connection.
Then there are the notes. I have mail.
You use email posts.
Sometimes you tell of your day, the pleasantries,
What you made for dinner,
Or how your plants fare in your new garden.
Occasionally you include incidentals about your business,
About your family and friends, your recent travels.
Your chief concern you, how you feel,
Hoping to fill, to close up the empty between us,
I am compelled to read,
Though the letters do not include me,
Of course, not word, nothing,
Nothing about how things might be going for me.
Why do I care, why even open your communications?
Hapless, I look to figure how I might fit within your plans, .
Hope somehow that you might write something personal to me.
Perhaps how you wish that I were there with you at home.
Maybe you might say that you miss our intimacies,
Or claim that you would love to hear my voice.
I search out your script, find no satisfaction.
I try, and I try to extract some tiny comfort between the lines
Instead the wound reopens, my cut festers,
The pain surrounding the punctured, the hot.
The ripped and torn, the awful marks of the lash,
There has not been time enough,
Will ever there be time enough,
My flesh, properly, to heal?
And forgive me the blasphemy, forgive!
Lord have mercy, save me!
I am reminded of Jesus after the beating,
When the Roman soldiers, who had torn off the purple,
Returned Him again to everyday garment,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
Yea, they stripped him, once more,
The pain of those wounds, opened and reopened,
Inflicted, over and over, oh the burn, every time,
Every time you write me, and I hear from you again.
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